


Flesh and Bone

by keep_me_alone



Series: Batfamily Ficlets [15]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idk what this is but its good i promise, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 22:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14657190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_me_alone/pseuds/keep_me_alone
Summary: Bruce gets hurt being Batman and shows up in Metropolis in the middle of the night. I wrote this as superbat but it's also like subtle so do what u want with that





	Flesh and Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Batman but like comics Batman with the flismy cloth costume instead of armour.

It is raining in Metropolis. The sky is full to bursting with dark clouds, fat raindrops pattering onto rooftops and pedestrians below. Clinging to his grapple, Batman hauls himself over a balcony railing and collapses there. He tells himself that he just he just needs a moment to collect himself before he gets up, but it is a lie. He's beat.

But he's made it to Clark's house and that is the important thing. Clark hears the noise of Bruce falling, though he doesn't immediately recognize what it is. He wanders into the living room and takes him a moment longer to make sense of the heap on his balcony, but as he does he rushes out, almost shattering  the glass as he throws the doors open.

"B-uddy, you ok?" Clark only just stops himself from calling him Bruce.

"Inside." Batman mumbles. His cheek is pressed into the wet floor. At least he's conscious and safe to move. Clark slides his hands under Bruce, picking him up as carefully as he can. Bruce bears it silently, but closes his eyes tightly. As Clark stands, the last tatters of Bruce's cape slide off of him.  Clark kicks it inside. The back of the batsuit is soaked crimson. Clark needs a moment to catch his breath.

"Are you going to pass out if I go get the first aid kit?" Clark asks, leaning Bruce sideways on his old yellow couch. Bruce apparently doesn't find this funny. Clark doesn't blame him.

"No," he says tightly. Clark is gone and back in literally the blink of an eye. He cuts the top half of the suit, fumbling a bit with the stupid tiny scissors. Belatedly, he remembers that he needs gloves and everything seems to be going just slightly too fast for him. It's all a bit fuzzy, but he gets the gloves on, the cowl off and the suit away. Bruce is deathly pale, and his normally sharp blue eyes are glassy.

"Clark," Bruce half growls. Clark jumps a bit. "Take a breath. It's just blood."

* _Your blood._ * Clark wants to say. * _There's so much._ * He can't believe Bruce is still conscious. The wound that stretches over Bruce's shoulders isn't deep, but it is long and still bleeding.

"* _Clark_ *," Bruce says, more urgently this time. "Get an coagulating agent. There's one in there." Bruce knows because he stocked the kit himself. Clark is brought back to himself. He finds the salve and unscrews the top, tries to ignore the hiss of Bruce's breath as he smoothes it into the wound. The first layer of gauze is quickly soaked and Clark layers more over top. "Pressure." Bruce grunts. Clark briefly wonders why Bruce is treating him like a child, then discards the thought. It doesn't matter whether it's because he's used to dealing with child partners, or because he thinks Clark's emotionally compromised. Clark has bigger problems right now.

"Lie down." Bruce starts to turn, slumping sideways before Clark grabs him and lets him down more gently, kicking himself. "Sorry." Bruce grunts. Clark maneuvers pillows under his chest and head to avoid suffocating him in the couch. Then gingerly, and trying not to put weight on Bruce anywhere other than his hands, he straddles him one knee on the couch and one foot on the floor.

"Didn't even buy me dinner," Bruce mumbles, startling a laugh from Clark. He adds another gauze pad to Bruce's back and increases the pressure.

"Only one of us has money, Wayne." He teases, "we both know it's not me." Neither of them say much for a few moments, but it's less awkward than it could have been. Blood seeps through the top layer of gauze and Clark actually curses. Bruce shifts uneasily as Clark covers him with two more layers.

"More pressure," Bruce says hoarsely.

"I don't want to hurt you." Clark protests.

"You have to. Harder." The line Clark is walking now is a thin one. He needs to use enough force to help with the bleeding, but no so much he crushes Bruce. Bruce probably can't tell him where that line is very reliably right now, and he's emotional and doesn't trust his own senses as much as he usually might. Against his judgement, he presses harder, drawing a small suppressed gasp from Bruce.

"How many innuendos," Bruce says tightly, "do you think we can make before this gets uncomfortable." Clark's laugh is almost a sob. "It's not that bad, Clark." Bruce says. "Just-," he gasps, "blood loss." Clark immediately eases up, afraid he's making it difficult for Bruce to breathe. 

"Do you lie to your kids like this?" Clark enquires. What he can see of Bruce's face twists into a sharp scowl. So he's not lying then. Clark's relieved.

"How long?" Bruce demands instead of answering.

"Seven minutes left." Bruce grunts and presses his face into the cushions. The wound across his back burns and Clark's weight is doing nothing for the pain. Bruce grits his teeth against it. A wave of dizziness washes over him. He wants painkillers, but with the amount of blood he's lost, he knows that's a bad idea. He'll have to tough it out. It isn't the worst injury he's had. Dimly, Bruce realizes that Clark has been speaking to him. He doesn't so much ask what as make an enquiring noise, but Clark hears and understands him.

"Jesus Bruce. Don't do that again." Bruce makes another noise. That's the second time he's heard Clark swear tonight. He must really be rattled. "You only have five minutes left, buddy."

"I'm fine." Bruce mutters.

"Bruce," Clark says rather sharply, and Bruce takes a second to reconsider. He might not actually be fine at the moment.

"Fine." He relents irritably, still muffled by the couch cushions.

"What were you doing in Metropolis anyways?" Clark asks. Even hazy from bloodloss, it's obvious Clark's just trying to keep him awake.

"Was tailing someone." Bruce murmurs, shifting his head to the side.

"All the way from Gotham?" Clark asks incredulously.

"I think he was working with Luthor." He grunts as Clark shifts slightly. Clark apologizes distractedly.

"Bruce-,"

"It's taken care of." Bruce growls. "I waited until the police took him." He can practically see the Clark's disapproving expression.

"I'm sorry." Clark said very calmly. "You waited in the rain. Bleeding out. For * _how long_ * before the cops showed up and you went for help?"

"A while." Bruce admits. Clark doesn't reply. He takes a very deep breath and looks at the ceiling for a moment. It wouldn't do to go through all this to save Bruce's hide then accidentally fry him with heat vision. Clark controls himself, glances at the clock then peels back the edge of the gauze on Bruce's back. He's stopped bleeding. Clark climbs off of Bruce.

"Clark?" Clark crouches to Bruce's eye level.

"You are * _infuriating_ *." Clark says levelly. Bruce blinks and Clark straightens up. "You've stopped bleeding." He takes up the dressing slowly. It makes a disconcerting, sloppy sound as it comes away from Bruce's skin. The man is covered in blood and it still seeps from the wound, but mostly it has clotted. "I'm going to seal this before I clean you up." Bruce nods.

Clark squeezes what is essentially superglue into the slashed skin and pinches it shut. He thanks every god he can think of that the wound isn't deeper.

Bruce is sucking in air through his teeth, gritting them so hard it feels like they might shatter. The pain burns out every other thought in his mind.

When things get clearer, Bruce becomes aware that Clark is apologizing over and over.

"Stop." But Clark babbles over him. "Clark." Bruce barks, and that shuts him up. Bruce shoves his face back into the pillows and tries to breath. It is easier without having to try and manage Clark. He pants, struggling to slow down his breathing. Clark puts on broad, warm hand on the small of Bruce's back. The weight of it gives him something to focus on and Bruce manages to control himself. His breath deepens. His skin still feels like a fresh brand, but he handles it.

"Sorry," Bruce says finally. His voice is rough. Clark brushes his thumb over Bruce's skin before removing his hand.

"Don't apologize," Clark says softly. "That's the worst of it."

"Thanks." Bruce sighs. After that it doesn't take Clark long to clean most of the blood off of Bruce's back and get him bandaged.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired," Bruce replies honestly.

"You lost a lot of blood," Clark says.

"Have any AB+ around?" Bruce asks. In this state, Clark honestly can't tell whether he's joking.

"I could give you a direct transfusion," he replies, "there could be some  side effects though." Like the time he'd accidentally transferred Louis and Lana his powers. The corner of Bruce's mouth quirks up.

"Thank you for patching me up." He says. The smile Clark flashes is a mix of shy farm boy and his characteristic Superman smile.

"Of course Bruce."

"Now would you mind calling Alfred to come pick me up."

"Bruce it's the middle of the night. Alfred's like ninety. I'm not waking him up at this hour. Not to do six hours of driving."

"Its his job," Bruce replies. Clark is unmoved.

"I don't want you going anywhere until you've got more blood in you and some rest." Clark says firmly. Bruce wishes he had the strength to sit up and argue properly. It's hard to be dignified when you're half hidden by ugly yellow cushions.

"You could take me." Bruce tries again, "Or do you actually have blood here?"

"I'm not going to walk a hundred miles with you." Clark says mildly. "It would take an entire day. And if I don't trust you in a car right now, I'm not about to speed you there." Bruce scowls at him. "If you can stay conscious for five minutes, I can run to the Manor and back with your blood." He tries not to think about the likelihood of it being Bruce's literal blood.

"This is kidnapping." Bruce informs him.

"Technically it's forcible confinement." Bruce groans and gives up, letting himself sink into the pillows. "I'm going to prop you up so you don't fall asleep when I'm gone," Clark tells him.

"You're not even going to ask?" Bruce grumbles.

"If you're my prisoner, why I should I?" Clark asks. Bruce rolls his eyes, but lets Clark help him into the same position as before, sitting with his side against the couch and his legs up on the cushions.

"Can I at least have a blanket before you go?" Bruce asks. Clark realizes that Bruce is still shirtless and feels bad for not realizing that he might be cold earlier. In a flash he's gone and back, reappearing with a blanket knitted to look like an American flag. He drapes it carefully over Bruce, making sure it doesn't aggravate his injury.

"Better?" Clark asks.

"Clark this blanket is wool."

"It's a nice blanket!" Clark protests. His ma gave him that blanket.

"It's scratchy," Bruce complains. He's somewhat gratified when Clark stares at him like he's lost his mind. Clark wonders if this is the billionaire playboy persona and whether Bruce has switched it on specifically to punish Clark for not taking him home.

This is exactly what Bruce has done. Clark is tempted to be rude to him, but Bruce is hurt and weak and ma raised him better than that.

"Can you manage for five minutes?" Clark asks patiently.

"I suppose."

"I'll be right back." Clark promises before he simply disappears, rustling the papers around the apartment as he goes.

The landscape whips by as Clark flies to the manor. He lets himself into the cave and gathers up the things he thinks he'll need. He's uncomfortable being there without Bruce. It feels disrespectful somehow.

Clark is starting to have difficulty, realizing he has too many things and not enough hands and why is there * _nothing_ * down here to carry medical supplies in, when Alfred steps off the elevator. Clark must have accidentally triggered an alarm in his hurry. He stops moving abruptly, and a blood pack  and packaged tubing falls out of his arms. This is awkward.

"Hello Alfred." Oh my god, it probably looks like he's stealing.

"Mr. Kent, is everything alright?" Alfred asks, raising thin eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," Clark says, blushing, "Bruce sent me. I didn't want to wake you."

"Not to worry," Alfred says calmly, "I was awake. Can I help you with anything, sir? A bag, perhaps?" 

"Thank you," Clark says, desperately grateful. He's too distracted to wonder why Alfred is up at this hour. Alfred pushes a button on the computer's console. The metal floor slides back and a table covered in gear rises. Alfred selects a duffel bag and leaves it open on the table as he transfers things from Clark's arms to it.

"One moment," Alfred says. He disappears into the room Clark had found most of the supplies in and returns with a folded metal stand. He adds it to the bag. "Is there anything else I may assist you with?"

Clark starts to say no, but stops a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"This might be too much to ask," he says slowly, "but do you think I could borrow a blanket? Bruce is being... difficult about mine." Alfred's mouth thins into a line that Clark recognizes as a  masked smile.

"Of course. Wait here please." Alfred vanishes again and Clark isn't even sure where he went, whether he's upstairs or somewhere in the cave. He waits for a few minutes, not really long at all, though it feels like ages, before Alfred appears carrying a thick brown blanket. Clark isn't sure how he manages to fit it into the bag with the other supplies, but he does.

"I believe this is the blanket Master Bruce prefers when he is ill." Alfred says. If Clark didn't know better, he'd say the butler was smug. It's always so hard to tell with him.

"Are you serious?" Clark asks trying to hide his glee. Bruce has a feel better blanket. It's one of the most human things Clark has learned about him. It's even better because Alfred told him instead of Bruce.

"Indeed. I don't believe he would ever admit to as much." Alfred says as he zips up the bag and passes it over.

"Thanks Alfred." Clark says, grinning. He slings the bag over his shoulder, stops just before rushing off. "He's gonna be ok." Clark says and dashes off before Alfred has time to compose a proper reply.

The wind in Clark's wake stirs Alfred's thin hair and he sighs. Bruce likely won't be returning that evening, but he still has preparations to make. A bulter's work is never done.

**Author's Note:**

> Alfred definitely gave Clark that blanket to chastise Bruce for being a lil bitch


End file.
